


In Good Company

by starlightwalking



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Friendship, Gen, Have a Happy Hobbit Holiday Gift Exchange, Light Angst, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 16:11:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16998255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: 13 snapshots of Bilbo’s journey with the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, one scene for each of his dwarf friends.





	In Good Company

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scotis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scotis/gifts).



> Happy holidays, Scotis! I hope your holiday season is full of cheer and friendship <3  
> This story pulls from a mix of book and movie canon, with a little bit of my own interpretations sprinkled in.

Bilbo sat a good distance away from the rest of the company, wrapped in a spare robe kindly lent to him by Gandalf. In running after the dwarves earlier that morning, he somehow had not imagined what traveling was actually like. He was not looking forward to spending the night out in the open, or lying on the ground.

His stomach rumbled, but he refused to get up and ask for more food. He'd already eaten more of his share, and he didn't think he could stand more jibes from dwarves about his hobbit-fat stomach and an appetite unfit for this endeavor.

Bilbo snorted. Those dwarves hadn't been so restrained as they emptied out his pantry the night before! At least this way he knew his food wouldn't rot in his absence.

"Hey, Master Baggins," said a cheerful voice.

Bilbo started, nearly falling over in surprise. "Ah!" he exclaimed, looking up at the dwarf who had wandered over to his side of their makeshift camp. "It's...uh..."

"Bofur," he supplied with a wink. " 'S alright, with thirteen of us I'd be surprised if you knew more than just Thorin's name."

Bilbo nodded, unable to hide a scowl upon hearing the name of the company's leader. Thorin was the worst of the bunch, in his opinion; he didn't make the kind of rude remarks as the rest, but the absolute disdain and disapproval of Bilbo's very presence truly got under his skin.

Bofur, though, didn't seem too bad. "Um," Bilbo said, "how are you?"

"Just thought I'd offer you a drink, as a welcome," Bofur said cheerily, raising the mugs he held in each hand. "And invite you over to join us. You're one of us now!"

"Thank you," Bilbo said, "but it doesn't feel much like it."

"They'll warm up to you," Bofur assured, plopping himself down beside Bilbo and shoving the mug into his hands.

Cautiously, Bilbo sniffed the liquid. "What is this?" he asked.

"Good dwarvish ale," Bofur said, taking a long drink. "The last of it. We can't take it all the way to Erebor." He elbowed Bilbo roughly. "If you don't want yours I know thirteen dwarves and a wizard who'd be glad to take it off your hands! Even young Ori will drink himself silly if you let him!"

"No, no, that won't be..." Bilbo sipped it, eyes watering. "It's...great." It wasn't, but he wasn't about to tell Bofur that.

"Excellent!" Bofur exclaimed. "See? We'll make a dwarf out of you in no time!"

* * *

Bilbo kept his pony at the back of the pack. Even when Gandalf trotted ahead to talk to Thorin or simply scout their path, he felt more comfortable without being accosted by rowdy dwarves at every given moment.

Ori hung back with him too. He was a quiet lad—comparatively, at least—who scribbled away in a journal every chance he got. Bilbo took a peek at his writing, but he couldn't make sense of the scratches. They must be in Dwarvish.

It was nice to ride with the youngster, Bilbo thought. Ori wouldn't bother him, and he wouldn't bother Ori. It worked out fine for both of them.

Well, usually.

"Master Baggins," Ori piped up one day, "would you mind if I asked you a question?"

Bilbo blinked. "Um, uh," he stammered, "yes, of course. Go ahead."

"How old are you?" Ori asked bluntly. "I know you hobbits age differently from dwarves, and I'd put you around middle-aged. You're definitely nowhere near as old as Balin."

"I'm, uh, I'm fifty years old," Bilbo said, caught off guard by the questions. "My birthday is in September."

"Fifty!" Ori laughed. "Mahal's toes! You're an infant. Glóin's son begged and begged to come on this quest but was turned down on account of being too young—and he's sixty-two!"

Bilbo laughed, unsure of what else to do. "Hobbits age like men, almost?" he offered. "We live a bit longer. I think. We come of age at thirty-three."

"It's nice to know I'm  _not_  the youngest," Ori said, smiling. "They barely let me come—but I'm only a few months younger than Kíli, and there was no question about him, so they had to let me tag along."

"Well—how old are you?" Bilbo asked, unsure if he really wanted to know.

"Seventy-six!" he said. "They said, 'Ori, you'll be the youngest, are you sure this is a good idea?' Hah!" He snickered, and Bilbo was suddenly a lot less sure of whether Ori was different from his relatives after all.

* * *

"And her eyes!" Balin exclaimed, his own eyes wistful. "Sparkling like sapphires! They pierce your soul! And her thighs—thunderous! Supple! Wondrous! And her  _beard_ —"

Bilbo nodded politely, biting his lip. Now he knew why even Dwalin didn't want to be around Balin when he was drunk. If all he was going to do was wax poetic about his wife, left back in Ered Luin, he wouldn't even be funny. Just bothersome.

"Even as she ages, her hairs grow longer, whiter, more beautiful." Balin sighed, swaying side to side. "What a perfect dwarrowdam! I am the luckiest dwarf alive!"

"I'd say Glóin disagrees," Bilbo pointed out, resigned. There would be no shutting Balin up until he finally fell asleep.

"Glóin won't even  _talk_  about his family!" Balin clucked his tongue, reaching forward to ruffle Bilbo's hair. Bilbo grimaced. "Glóin's glad to be gone!"

"I'm pretty sure he's trying not to get homesick," Bilbo said, but Balin didn't register any of his words.

"Do  _you_  have a special someone, Master Burglar?" Balin wiggled his eyebrows, leaning so uncomfortably close that Bilbo could smell the alcohol on his breath. "Have you—" he hiccuped— "Have you  _burgled_  anyone's heart away?"

"I am afraid not," Bilbo said, eager to redirect the conversation. "What did you say your wife's name was again?"

* * *

"No, no, not like that!" Glóin grumbled. "You've got to get the spark  _into_  the steel!"

Bilbo bit back a retort. Glóin's patience had already been tried enough—he and his brother had been separated by Thorin for arguing, and it was Bilbo's responsibility to distract him until they'd both calmed down. For some reason—he hadn't the faintest idea why Thorin thought  _he_  was a good person for the job. It looked like he was only riling up Glóin more.

"But I thought it was supposed to go into the wood," Bilbo said, frowning at the flint and steel in his hands. "That's where the fire gets bigger."

"If you don't let it breathe in the steel first—!" Glóin growled, reaching over to yank the metal tools out of Bilbo's hands. He stopped himself at the last minute. "Mahal damn it," he muttered. "No, you're going to do this! If my son can get it at his young age, so can you!"

"Your son is older than me," Bilbo pointed out. "At least, that's what Ori said."

Glóin stared at him. "You're joking."

"I'm fifty."

"You're  _joking_!" Glóin burst into laughter, rolling backward as his guffaws shook his frame. "We're trusting a child to steal the Arkenstone for us! I'd trust  _Kíli_  over you, and he's the most reckless lad I know!" He snorted. "And he's older than you too!"

"I am well into adulthood by hobbit standards," Bilbo said, affronted. "You thought I was your age before I told you I wasn't!"

Glóin kept chuckling, wiping his eyes. "Ahh, that was a good laugh there. Thank you, Bilbo."

"I bet Gandalf sees all of us as children," Bilbo pointed out. "It's not  _that_  funny."

Glóin nudged Bilbo's wrist. "If you can prove you're  _mature_  by starting this fire, I'll consider keeping your true age to myself."

Bilbo scowled, but he returned his focus to the flint and steel.

* * *

"These elves!" Kíli complained. "So stuffy! So modest!"

Bilbo handed him a towel, averting his eyes from Kíli's nude body. "If elves were swimming naked in a fountain in Erebor, don't you think you'd have an issue with that?"

"The only issue would be elves in Erebor," Kíli huffed, drying off his hair.

Kíli had been last to leave the fountain after Lindir had asked the dwarves to please get out of the fountain and put on some clothes. He'd been polite, but also rather strained. After having come this far with them, Bilbo sympathized. He hung back to round all dozen or so of them up.

"I like the elves," Bilbo said mildly as Kíli mercifully wrapped the towel around his waist.

"You're the only one!" Kíli laughed. "Well, Dori likes their tea. But that's it."

"What's wrong with elves?" Bilbo asked, scratching his head.

"Not hairy enough!" Kíli exclaimed. "Can you imagine kissing a face that smooth?  _Yeuch_!"

Bilbo chuckled, rubbing his own beardless chin. "Well, yes, actually."

"Oh, you don't count," Kíli dismissed. "Your beard just got your cheeks and your feet mixed up."

Bilbo opened his mouth to explain how hobbit hair worked, but he closed it again, a smile twitching at his lips. There was no changing Kíli's mind.

* * *

"My damned feet," Bilbo moaned, rubbing sensation back into his toes. "Running around in those goblin caves destroyed my soles!"

Dori clucked his tongue. "Oh, give me those," he said, beckoning Bilbo to come to closer to him. He reached into his pack and removed a curious-looking vial of some oily substance

Cautiously, Bilbo scooted forward. Hobbits weren't too particular about feet, considering they never wore shoes, but he hadn't a clue what Dori had in mind.

"What's that?" he asked as Dori unstoppered the vial and drizzled some of the oil onto his feet. "Shampoo?" He wished it was—his feet had never been filthier.

"Unfortunately, no," Dori sighed. "What I wouldn't give for a good bath...but alas, we'll have to make do with a massage. This oil will at least make you smell a bit better."

"Oh!" Bilbo smiled. "Thank goodness! That's exactly what I—oh! Ahh!"

Dori gripped his calloused hobbit heel and began knead. Bilbo gasped each time he hit a sore spot, but sighed in relief as his muscles began to soften up. He had really needed this.

"Do you want me to return the favor when you're done?" Bilbo asked.

"Mm, that would be wonderful," Dori agreed. "My feet aren't nearly as big as yours, though. Only Bombur could approach the size of a hobbit foot!"

"We've got the best feet around," Bilbo said proudly. "I'm almost surprised you dwarvish folk are civilized enough to know about massage!"

Dori chuckled. "Before the dragon came I was on track to become a masseuse. I had to become a warrior during the exodus—but I assure you, friend Bilbo, massage is not the finest luxury the dwarven people have to offer!"

* * *

"This is a heavenly luncheon!" Bilbo exclaimed, his eyes almost as big as his stomach as he took in the spread before him. "Master Beorn, did you cook all of this?"

"Mm, I only helped," Beorn rumbled, nodding to Bombur.

"The secret is to start the roast the night before," Bombur said wisely. "It's been cooking since sundown. Our host was kind enough to turn the spit."

Bilbo breathed the lovely aroma deep into his lungs. "Oh, this will be a meal fit for kings!" he sighed.

"I should hope so!" Bombur chuckled, his enormous belly shaking. "My mother was the royal chef—she taught me everything I know."

"I didn't know they had nobility do the cooking," Bilbo said. "Though I am unversed in your ways. Back in Hobbiton, we've got a mayor."

"Bifur and Bofur and I are far from nobility—though we've earned the Durin line's favor through their stomachs!" Bombur explained. "By the time he was six, Fíli was so in love with my soups that he'd betray his own mother for one more spoonful!" He waved a hand at the pot of soup nearest to him. "This is his favorite—though unfortunately Beorn is out of broccoli."

Bilbo grinned. "Oh, I do love a good soup. How about tea? Do you make good cakes and hot drinks?"

"Nothing like what we ate back at Bag End," Bombur admitted. "When this is all over, you'll have to give me some pointers."

Bilbo dipped his finger into the soup, ignoring its temperature, and smacked his lips as he got an early taste. "Mmm!" he sighed. "You'll have to give me tips, as well!"

* * *

Bilbo snapped back to reality as he nearly stumbled off the path into the darkness of Mirkwood's undergrowth. He gasped, flailing backward and falling right into one of his companions, knocking them both over.

" _Arghh_!" bellowed Fíli, shoving Bilbo off his chest. "Nori, what're you—" He broke off. "Wha...? Bilbo?"

Bilbo's head hurt. The world spun. His toe throbbed. "Fíli?"

"Yeah?" Fíli rubbed his forehead, pulling himself into a sitting position. "What was that for? Knocking me over?"

"Was an...an accident," Bilbo said. He reached into his pocket, turning his ring over in his hand as a nervous habit. "I think...something's funny. Something's off about this place."

"What, the creepy enchanted forest?" Fíli snorted. "Where did you get that idea?"

Bilbo laughed half-heartedly. "Sorry about bumping into you."

"Knocked me back to my senses." Fíli frowned. "At least...I think."

Bilbo pushed himself to his feet, offering Fíli a hand. With both of them back on the path, Bilbo groaned.

"They're so far ahead of us!" he moaned. "We'll lose them!"

"Hey!  _Hey_!" Fíli hollered after the rest of the Company. He grabbed Bilbo's hand and rushed forward, pulling Bilbo after him. "Wait for us!"

* * *

"Ten...eleven...twelve..." Bilbo looked around frantically. The guards were bound to come any moment now—where was the missing thirteenth dwarf? Of all the times to wander off...!

"Who's missing?" he hissed to himself. It didn't take long for him to figure it out, of course.

"Nori," he growled under his breath. Bilbo retraced his steps as quickly and quietly as he could, his finger poised to slip on his ring if he spotted any elves.

"Nori!" he said in a strangled whisper as he caught sight of the dwarf. To Bilbo's horror, he'd caught Nori in the act of unfastening a necklace hung around the neck of a wine-drunk, passed-out elf. "What in the blazes are you doing?!"

Nori looked from Bilbo to the necklace and back to Bilbo again. He shrugged. "What does it look like?" he said, not sounding nearly guilty enough.

" _Leave it_ ," Bilbo ordered. "Once we get to the mountain you'll have all the gold you can want! Do you want me to ask Dwalin to beat your thick skull for me?! This is an  _escape mission_!"

"Some burglar you are," Nori grumbled, dropping the necklace. "Alright, I'm coming."

Bilbo kept him in sight as they snuck back down to the barrels—but not before cautiously sliding the bit of gold off the sleeping elf's neck. He  _did_  need burglary practice.

* * *

"That man is the ugliest turd I have ever had the displeasure of laying my eyes upon," Dwalin grumbled, picking at his food moodily. " _Master_. What a pathetic title for even more pathetic man."

Bilbo nodded gloomily. "I'll say," he agreed, sniffling. "He doebn't even hab any bedicine for me."

Dwalin passed him a napkin. "I don't think anyone can blame him if you get snot all over his fancy fabrics, then."

Bilbo gratefully took it from him, blowing his nose like the obnoxious trumpets that had announced the Master of Lake-town's arrival. "Bifur could gib a better sbeech than him. And Bifur cab't eben sbeak Westrob."

"Neither can you, right now," Dwalin teased. "You sound you're underwater."

"I wab," Bilbo grumbled. "It wabn't fun."

* * *

"Has he always been like this and I've not been paying attention?" Bilbo wondered in a hushed undertone.

Bifur shook his head and mumbled something in Khuzdul. Bilbo had picked up a few words from his journeys with the dwarves, but not enough to know what Bifur said. Still, he got the gist of what he meant.

"That's what I was worried of." Bilbo sighed, tossing another ruby over his shoulder. It was almost the size of his fist, but it wasn't the Arkenstone, and that's all Thorin cared about. "Is he ill?"

Bifur was silent for awhile, before at last giving a noncommittal grunt.

"If he is, maybe Óin should take a look at him," Bilbo mused. "What do you think?"

That was an emphatic  _no_ —Bifur didn't have to speak for Bilbo to understand the look in his eyes.

"Is there anything we can do, then?" Bilbo asked, feeling awfully helpless.

Bifur laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. This time his eyes were unreadable, but the soft and comforting murmur in Khuzdul was enough to ease Bilbo's heart for just a few moments.

* * *

Bilbo paced back and forth outside the makeshift infirmary. He froze as Óin exited the tent, wiping his forehead free of sweat.

"Well?" he demanded. "How are they?"

"The boys are pulling through," Óin said, the exhaustion apparent in the well-fried tones of his voice. "Kíli is mending speedily. That...elf is in there with him. As for Fíli—well, if he beats the fever, he should live."

"And...Thorin?" Bilbo barely squeaked out the words, his throat tightening with worry.

Óin slumped his shoulders. "He's seen better days, lad."

"No," Bilbo whispered. "If any of us... _died_ , especially those three, why I'd never—"

"You and me both," Óin agreed. He laid a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "Relax, Bilbo. We're doing all we can. Mahal willing, Thorin will see better days again."

* * *

"Some party, hm?" Bilbo said, clutching his hands behind his back as they walked through the dimly lit halls of Erebor.

"A coronation ought to be," Thorin rumbled slowly. He walked with a limp these days, but his eyes were clear. Bilbo was grateful for that every day.

"I'm glad everyone could be here for it," Bilbo said. "Your sister is a wonderful woman."

"I'm glad you think so," Thorin drawled. "She was an egregious girl."

Bilbo snorted, a smile twitching at his lips. "Well, we've all changed."

Thorin nodded. "That we have," he agreed. "Myself most of all."

"Psh!" Bilbo rolled his eyes. "You're still the same stubborn, noble dwarf that left Ered Luin.  _I_  am a far cry from the homebody who barely left Bag End!"

"Don't deny me my character growth," Thorin protested, smiling. "You are still the kind-hearted hobbit who misses his armchair, while  _I_  am the humbled friend of a man who gave me more patience than I deserved."

"Who, Bard?" Bilbo teased.

Thorin stopped. "Don't play fool, Bilbo," he said seriously. "You know I mean you."

"I'm flattered." Bilbo sighed. "But I'm afraid you're right on the other account, too. My armchair, my books...you've got your home back. I need to go back to mine, sooner or later."

"Of course," Thorin agreed. "It would be selfish for me to ask that time to be later, and I do not mean to keep you from where you belong."

"But?" Bilbo prompted.

"The whole company will miss you," Thorin admitted. "You are welcome in Erebor as long as you have some desire to be here. We would be delighted if you stayed with us."

"I don't want to leave the people here," Bilbo assured. "I am in good company when I am with you all. But... Bag End is my home, as much as Erebor is yours."

"We understand," Thorin said. "And if you truly must leave, at least let us do you the honor of throwing you a going-away party."

"I wouldn't have it any other way!" Bilbo exclaimed. "So long as this one isn't a surprise!"

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: Now that my identity is no longer a secret, I’d like to plug my other story “Among Fellows” which is sort of a LOTR companion piece to this Hobbit fic! The titles are reminiscent of each other, and both are in snapshot form focusing on relationships between members of each group of travelers. Check it out if you like this story!


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